


A Little Balm and a Little Honey

by PepperPrints



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Domestic Bliss, F/M, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Hair Kink, High Heels, M/M, PWP, Rimming, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Stockings, crossdressing (sort of), trans author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 10:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20113471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: Life in South Downs has provided them with ample opportunity to slow down and enjoy the smaller things: Aziraphale reads his books, Crowley has his garden and (much to Aziraphale's delight) he starts growing out his hair.While Aziraphale himself never feels the need to explore the complicated web of human gender, he finds that he truly enjoys it when Crowley does.





	A Little Balm and a Little Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes Neil Gaiman hands you the boon of a genderfluid demon and his angelic spouse running off to live in a cottage together post-not-Apocalypse, and you have to indulge your vices. 
> 
> Also, apologies for the inappropriate usage of a bible quote as the title for shameless, indulgent pornography.
> 
> Also also because I like to know before I like to read GNC/trans fiction... I’m also trans.

They’ve spent four months in South Downs, and Crowley still wears his glasses.

Not always, but consistently enough. Aziraphale almost felt concerned about it at first, but then the reality of it settled in: Crowley isn’t necessarily hiding from him; he simply likes adhering to the one piece of his appearance that never seems to change. 

This particular aspect of Crowley always fills Aziraphale with something fond. Ever like a snake, Crowley is constantly changing, shedding his skin every decade or so -- if not sooner, really. The glasses, though, once those came in then they never really left. 

Other things change too, though Aziraphale doesn’t notice right away. It isn’t until one day when Crowley is loudly arguing with his garden, too hissing to be ignored, and from his place on the porch, Aziraphale peers up from his book. 

While the cursing -- inspired as it is -- is noteworthy, Aziraphale finds himself distracted by something else entirely. Elbows deep in shrubbery, Crowley wrestles with pruning shears in one hand, while the other keeps stubbornly pushing at his hair, trying to keep it out of his eyes.

Aziraphale inclines his head, just slightly.

“Crowley,” he calls, interrupting his stream of colourful threats. “Dear. Are you growing out your hair?”

Whipping his head up from his mess of greenery, Crowley gives an exaggerated snarl. “Am I growing out my hair?” he mocks, blowing a sharp puff of air up towards his disobedient bangs. “No. _ No _. I am just so deeply, terribly fond of being half blind in my everyday action that I decided to make a real commitment!” 

Crowley punctuates the statement with one, sharp clip of the shears, sentencing a browned piece of shrubbery to death, and Aziraphale raises a brow. 

Huh.

Going back to his book, Aziraphale smiles to himself. 

\--

There’s an awkward stage that Crowley could probably have miracled himself through, if he wanted, but for some reason he seems dedicated to seeing it through properly. It involves a series of pins and clips and sometimes just the act of giving up trying to style it altogether before it becomes tamed to something even mildly acceptable. 

Sitting across from him at breakfast, Aziraphale finds his nerve. This conversation has fluttered around in his mouth since he realized Crowley wasn’t going to get frustrated halfway through and chop his hair off again, and he has never quite settled on how to bring it up. Here, over morning tea and news -- well, Aziraphale has the news; Crowley has one of those odd magazines that Miss Device has turned him on to -- he clears his throat. 

“Your hair looks nice today,” Aziraphale praises, as casually as one would say the weather looks nice today. In reality, he means it as earnestly as one would say: the weather looks absolutely perfect today and if I don’t sit out in the sun and soak it all for what it’s worth I’ll surely regret it, so please _ please _ may we have a picnic at the very least? I’m famished. 

The metaphor wanders a bit, but that isn’t his main concern. 

“Mh?” Crowley intones, barely peering up from his magazine. “Oh right. Yeah. It’ll keep itself up now.” 

“Quite!” Aziraphale agrees quickly, far too quickly. Crowley does have most of it up, held it a loose bun at the base of his skull, while the stray pieces flutter around his jaw and loosely curl. “Ah…”

Frowning to himself, Aziraphale reaches for his tea and sips it delicately. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?” he continues, conversationally enough, and just a little edging.

But all Crowley does is turn the page of his magazine. He holds the damn thing so loosely in between his fingertips, so it’s a wonder the glossy pages don’t slip through his grip altogether. “Not really,” Crowley says. “Only just five years.” 

Aziraphale scowls at him. Not that Crowley notices. He has to wonder if Crowley is tormenting him on purpose; if there’s some demonic _ need _ to torment build into his wiring and now Aziraphale is the only person he can take it out on. 

“Not just the hair, dearest,” he persists, adding the affection in hopes it’ll actually catch Crowley’s interest. It does, given the flash of gold that appears above the dark lenses of his glasses, but Aziraphale is too anxious to feel triumphant about it. 

“Well. Oh.” Aziraphale huffs a breath, settling his teacup down. “What I mean to say, Crowley, is that it’s been awhile since you’ve… ah.”

Crowley just stares at him. Aziraphale swallows and he manages: “Oh, you know,” he struggles. “Since you’ve taken a turn the other way. _ Slender Aphrodite.. _.” The poetry doesn’t help him to feel any less ridiculous, and he abandons it immediately, bringing the tea up again to hide his own foolish mouth.

Crowley has an awful habit of not blinking: another trait passed down from a serpentine heritage. “I don’t follow,” Crowley says dully, and it could be damn well that he does follow, and he simply wants to see Aziraphale squirm -- but Aziraphale is too flustered to call a bluff. 

“What I mean to say,” Aziraphale tries, abruptly very interested in staring at his tea. “Is that I haven’t seen you... “ He struggles for the proper word and it stammers on the way out, “Present yourself as the fairer sex in quite a long time.”

It’s true, though. Aziraphale always wondered about that: how Crowley took so immediately to feminine clothing in what is arguably perhaps, in all the history they’ve experienced together, the worst possible time to have been a woman. Not to say that there hadn’t been gaps in their friendship, and perhaps he hadn’t seen Crowley for a certain period where a different fashion caught his eye. But, seeing Crowley with his hair long again, he can’t help but think…

Well. Aziraphale has never wandered much in his own image of himself. In fact, once he’d found what he enjoyed, he’s really only been modifying himself by the slightest increments now as time goes on. His suit still looks old-fashioned, by today’s standards, but it’s simply what Aziraphale likes. He figured that out long ago and now he sticks by it. Crowley, on the other hand, while having a clear aesthetic, always chooses to explore it in a variety of ways, and... 

While Aziraphale himself never feels the need to explore the complicated web of human gender, he finds that he truly enjoys it when Crowley does.

Aziraphale takes a sizeable gulp of his tea, as if to swallow down his own embarrassment, and Crowley looks back at his magazine.

“That’s a bit sexist, don’t you think?” he muses. 

“Sexist!” Aziraphale declares, his cheeks turning pink. “Crowley, I would _ never… _” 

“A modern day woman can present herself however she likes,” Crowley announces, sounding very much like he’s reciting the line straight out of that stupid magazine he’s reading. “What’s to say I haven’t been a woman as of late, mh? What’s to say I’m not a woman right now?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, then closes it again, pausing before he tentatively utters. “Are you…?” 

Crowley makes a good effort to keep a straight face, but the corners of his lips turn upward and Aziraphale slumps. “Oh, don’t _ tease _ me about this, Crowley,” he implores weakly. “You dreadful serpent.” 

“Oh I’m dreadful again?” Crowley taunts, smiling hugely to show his teeth as he leans forward across the table. “What happened to fair? What happened to _ sss_lender?” Crowley drags out the ‘s’ and Aziraphale’s skin feels warm.

“You can be both those things and still be dreadful,” Aziraphale argues plainly, shifting stiffly in his seat. “Oh, forget I mentioned it.” 

“I most certainly will not,” Crowley says smugly, and Aziraphale scowls at him over his teacup. 

\--

Crowley doesn’t forget, but he also doesn’t bring it up. Much to Aziraphale’s relief. He does, however, keep growing out his hair, and Aziraphale’s hands keep getting lost in it. Aziraphale touches Crowley’s shoulder as he passes, and one finger will idly curl around a copper lock. Or, Aziraphale will tuck away a stray piece that’s fallen into Crowley’s face over breakfast. Or, Crowley rests his head on Aziraphale’s lap, letting Aziraphale read to him, and by the time they’re done Aziraphale’s fingers will have smoothed out every tangle from Crowley’s hair more effectively than any brush. 

There’s always small gestures, little things like they’re still somehow afraid to be found out. It’s spreading, though, as they spend more time together, building up like a rolling stone.

Then there are the bolder things, which come in increasing frequency. Like the perfect, wonderful indulgence of Crowley letting Aziraphale wash his hair while they shared the water in the (literally miraculously large enough for two) old-fashioned clawfoot tub that Aziraphale had simply insisted on putting in the cottage. Aziraphale had delighted in taking his time with that: working up the suds, easing out the odd tangle, neat nails scrubbing at Crowley’s scalp. 

Well, perhaps the bath itself was a small gesture -- but what came from it certainly was not. It took another little miracle for the water not to get cold as he clutched Crowley tight against his chest while Crowley rode him with delirious abandon. And then of course there was afterwards, still-damp skin sticking to cotton sheets...

So perhaps the risk of being discovered doesn’t weigh quite as heavily as he thought. Aziraphale isn’t really shy to admit that six thousand years of an unsated appetite certainly builds up. They’ve been sharing a bed since they moved in, and Aziraphale wonders if the amount of time they spend in it rivals the time spent out. 

It’s comfortable living here. Aziraphale worried about giving up the book shop at first; he did love it dearly… however, the fact that the cottage can house all of his collection, and will never have a customer asking him to part with a piece of it, quickly overwhelms any lingering nostalgia. 

Crowley is comfortable too -- or he appears to be. The time spent screaming at the garden turns out to be not actually as stressful of an ordeal as Aziraphale originally believed it to be, and Crowley has his music. Aziraphale can’t say he never noticed it, because centuries in someone’s company leaves behind very few unknowns, but there’s new depths he’d never seen. Like Crowley quietly singing some odd tune under his breath, carrying it along from his last trip in the Bentley, as he fixes up his plants or pours them drinks. 

His voice is lovely. Aziraphale wants to tell him, but worries the compliment might make Crowley too abruptly aware of what appears to be a purely unconscious habit, and that he’d stop it altogether. Crowley only seems to do it when he’s lost in his own head, mind somewhere else. 

What he does indulge, however, is picking up vinyl records to play on Aziraphale’s outdated gramophone. Certain nights, when he’s intoxicated on vintage wine or simply high on sheer affection, he’ll pull Aziraphale away from his comfortable place on the couch, toss aside his book (carefully, Aziraphale will insist), and dance with him in the middle of the living room.

Aziraphale likes to think himself a quick study, but he does struggle when there’s not a proper set of steps to learn. Crowley just wants to dance aimlessly with him, moving whatever way he fancies with his notoriously distracting hips, and Aziraphale just bumbles along and hopes not to step on his toes. That’s all Crowley asks for, really, and most nights end with his face tucked warmly against Aziraphale’s neck as they sway together.

It lends for a sort of discord -- days will go by where he settles into the comfortable familiarity of things, the time-worn groove of existing in Crowley’s sphere. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the demon will catch him entirely by surprise, and Aziraphale will be taken by a different kind of endearment altogether; sharp and sweet and new on his tongue.

\--

“Fancy eating out tonight?” 

Aziraphale is buttering toast when Crowley pops his head in the door. It’s a little after twelve, and there’s white paint sticking to the back of Crowley’s knuckles, and dripped over his shirt. He’s been redoing the front gate since this morning; Aziraphale is momentarily distracted by the way a wisp of hair clings to the sweat on his forehead. 

“Out?” Aziraphale parrots. 

“Yes, out,” Crowley repeats, with the sort of overdone patience reserved for the very young or the very dull, and Aziraphale scowls at him from his place by the toaster -- he’s neither. “Thought maybe we could pop into town,” Crowley continues. “Get sushi. Been a minute, hasn’t it?”

Now that Aziraphale thinks about it, it has. There’s no shortage of good food in this little corner of the world they’ve adopted; fresh apples from the stand down the lane, tender pork loin from the butcher in the village. On his trips for soil and seed, Crowley always manages to bring back something scrumptious and freshly baked from his travels -- here, a loaf of french bread, there a box of danishes. Aziraphale has been so content that he hadn’t even realized how long it’s been since they’ve gone to an actual restaurant.

“That sounds lovely,” he answers, warming to the idea with a smile. He can wear his good shoes. “Thank you.”

Crowley makes a vague noise of agreement, then disappears around the doorway again.

“Be ready ‘round eight then!” Aziraphale hears him call through the window, from somewhere approximate to the front step. 

\--

Despite himself, there’s a nagging excitement in Aziraphale’s belly as he prepares himself for dinner. Realistically, he could be washed up and set to go with a snap of his fingers, but it always seems so disingenuous. Instead, he takes the time to comb his hair and change his socks, and to retrieve the camel hair coat he so rarely gets the opportunity to wear of late from the wardrobe. 

It’s the little things, really. They have all the time in the world now, don’t they? So why not enjoy it for all its worth?

It will be nice to get out; to sit with Crowley among the idle thrum of people. To drink sake and eat sushi until his belly is full, and then come home, here, together. That’s a new kind of delight that he has to admit he’s looking forward to: retreating to this place that they share, rather than going their separate ways at the end of the night.

At eight o’clock sharp, Aziraphale is sitting at the kitchen table waiting. By eight-fifteen, he can still hear Crowley shuffling around in the bedroom down the hallway, and he’s beginning to feel a little hungry.

“Crowley?” he calls out, then, to soften the sharp reply he’s bound to get for interrupting him: “Darling?”

But there’s no answer at all. Not even to chastise him on ‘rushing art.’ Frowning, Aziraphale checks his pocket watch, sitting for precisely another five minutes, before he rises from the table. 

Respecting that Crowley’s kept the door shut, Aziraphale knocks on the worn wood with his knuckles. “Crowley?” he tries again. “It’s nearly eight-thirty.” 

There’s some sound of a scuffle, maybe something knocked off the desk, and Crowley makes a noise of frustration. Aziraphale lingers, listening for the muffled noises of Crowley busying himself around the bedroom, and he sighs. 

“Crowley--” he starts, and he jumps a little when the door moves. It opens, just a crack, just enough for Aziraphale to see a flash of slitted eyes as Crowley peers around the gap.

“I said ‘around eight’,” Crowley reminds back. “Didn’t I? It’s still around.”

Aziraphale, perfect and polite and punctual, swallows that down. This was Crowley’s idea in the first place, so perhaps it’s improper to push the matter. Besides, strictly speaking, Aziraphale doesn’t need to eat, so any concept of being hungry is purely in his own head.

Even so… his stomach rumbles.

“Well. Is there anything I can--” Aziraphale begins, reaching for the door handle, and Crowley stalls him with one hand curling tight around the edge of the door. 

One very neatly painted hand, with nails lengthened either by a little miracle or some store bought assistance, but Crowley withdraws before Aziraphale can scrutinize that too deeply, pulling the door back with him to allow Aziraphale a better view of the room within. 

Head tilted to one side, Crowley fusses with a gold earring. The angle sends his hair cascading down, where it hangs in loose, curled locks down past his shoulders, and Aziraphale finds himself very still. Crowley’s nails aren’t the only part of him that’s painted: his lips are done to match, and the absence of his glasses makes it clear he’s added to his face as well. It’s strange, seeing specific emphasis drawn to Crowley’s eyes, rather than how he so often opts to hide them altogether. The shading sharpens the brightness of them, making it especially cutting when he fixes Aziraphale with a look. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be patient?” Crowley asks dully.

Aziraphale swallows, very deliberately, before he finds his voice again. “That’s saints,” he replies, sounding like he’s answering on some odd, trained instinct rather than any consciousness. “Not angels.”

Scoffing, Crowley rolls his eyes. “What’s the difference?” he mutters, still fussing with the earring. Its partner sits very pretty on the opposite side of Crowley’s head, tucked among the neat locks of his hair.

He must’ve curled it, Aziraphale notes hazily. Or maybe he miracled it. He could tell the difference if he touched him -- his hair would be warm if he did it by hand… 

Abruptly, the idea of having Crowley’s hair be warm under his touch fills Aziraphale with a specific sort of ache. Worse than just the usual longing to touch him -- which is more than twofold tonight. 

“Oh, for Satan’s sake,” Crowley growls, tossing his head a little, and Aziraphale snaps back to himself. “Get _ in _ there.” 

Stepping forward, Aziraphale gently touches Crowley’s wrist. “Really, dear. When was the last time you wore earrings?” Aziraphale asks, taking over for him with careful fingers that miraculously don’t tremble.

Crowley frowns thoughtfully, the lipstick framing his mouth so nicely, which almost sufficiently destroys what little focus Aziraphale has carefully reclaimed. “Mid 70’s, probably,” Crowley guesses. 

“Ah,” says Aziraphale knowingly, giving the hoop the last little push through Crowley’s ear. “Your time with junk rock.” 

“Ow--!” Crowley hisses. “_ Punk _ rock, Aziraphale, _ punk _ rock. God, that stings.” 

Aziraphale lowers his hands, letting Crowley step back from him, and his throat feels tight. Crowley wanders deeper into the bedroom, bending at his middle to collect a pair of shoes. He balances himself on one foot, while he tugs the heel up onto the other. Those are new, and so is the dress he’s wearing: something sleek, predictably black, and snug around his waist. 

Aziraphale takes significant effort to not to get distracted about Crowley’s waist.

“Pardon my asking,” Aziraphale says, gaze drifting to the littering of makeup scattered around the desk, “but where did you get all this, Crowley?” 

“Out,” Crowley answers vaguely, hopping as he works the complicated lacing of his shoe up over his ankle. Aziraphale can’t help wondering if that particular footwear actually lends itself well to driving, but he supposes he can’t really talk, given his reluctance to ever be behind the wheel. “Which is where we’ll be headed soon, since you’re so worried. I’m nearly done.” 

“Oh, I’m not,” Aziraphale insists quickly. “Worried, I mean. We’re not in any hurry.”

Crowley arches a brow at him. “We’re not in any hurry?” he parrots disbelievingly.

Cheeks colouring, Aziraphale shuffles his weight a little. “Well, the restaurant is open rather late,” he offers. 

“_I _ know that,” Crowley states bluntly. “You were the one forcing your way in here like you were about to waste away.” 

“You had said eight!” Aziraphale reminds defensively. “And I was getting famished.” Clearing his throat, Aziraphale fusses a little with his hands. “But I didn’t realize you were… busy.” 

Snatching up his other shoe, Crowley starts to wiggle his way into it. “What did you think I was doing in here?” he asks dully. 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale admits, just a little sheepishly. “Not… this.” 

Crowley, too distracted by the careful balancing act on his opposite foot -- which now involves keeping steady on the narrow base of his heel -- doesn’t readily reply. He wobbles just a little, and Aziraphale hurries forward again. 

“Oh, here, why don’t you sit?” he offers, his hand gently touching Crowley’s elbow. His heartbeat feels a little flutter as he goes, guiding Crowley back to sit on the edge of the bed. “I can help.”

Despite himself, Aziraphale feels a tremble in his posture as he settles on his knees in front of Crowley, cupping the back of his calf in his palm. He’s wearing stockings, and the nylon feels pleasantly smooth under Aziraphale’s hand. He swallows as he guides the heel properly onto Crowley’s foot, trying to ignore the heat that creeps persistently up the back of his neck. The lacing gives him more trouble than he anticipates, his brow furrowing as he works the ties up Crowley’s leg. 

The fact that his hands shake a little probably doesn’t help. He risks glancing up at Crowley, and immediately realizes his mistake. From where he sits, Crowley stares down at him: eyes impossibly bright when framed by smokey eyeshadow, smirking lips such a deep red that it’s nearly black, and the angles of his face made up to be even sharper than their usual cutting edges. The dress sits low on his chest, showing the narrow bumps of his collarbone, its thin straps resting tight along broad shoulders, and it cinches tight, tight down his sides until it reaches his legs, where a slit cuts so far up his thigh that Aziraphale momentarily loses track of himself altogether. 

And his hair: long and waved and seemingly begging for Aziraphale’s hands to be buried in it... 

“You’ve outdone yourself, I think,” Aziraphale praises, his hands lingering on Crowley’s leg even after he’s finished, delicately balancing the back of his heel in his palm. 

Dragging one manicured hand back through the elaborate mess of his hair, Crowley smirks a little. “That so?” he goads, and Aziraphale knows it’s baiting, and he takes it all the same.

“Oh _ yes _,” he tells him, terribly earnest. “You look just-- just lovely, Crowley.” 

“Oh, just lovely,” Crowley repeats teasingly. Lifting his foot from Aziraphale’s palm, he sets it on Aziraphale’s chest instead, slowly applying pressure. Tilting his head to one side, Crowley’s voice lowers. “Demons generally aren’t very lovely, you know.” 

As Crowley raises his heel, the dress spills down to one side, and from where he sits, Aziraphale gets a glimpse higher up Crowley’s leg: where a tight, black garter rests to keep his tights in place. The toned muscle of Crowley’s thigh pushes against the strap, perfectly snug, and Aziraphale _ aches _...

Stomach dropping, Aziraphale’s pulse thuds loudly in his ears as he lets himself be pushed. “They aren’t?” he asks, as if he’s playing along, but his voice is too stiff to seem playful -- too affected. “How foolish of me. I… ah, I must need some reminding, it seems.” 

His smirk spreading, Crowley applies a little more pressure, and Aziraphale leans back under his heel with a desperate, demanding want. “Is there really time for that?” he taunts, and Aziraphale’s chest twists. “I thought you were hungry.”

“Starving,” he confesses immediately, and he truly means it -- just not the same was he did five minutes ago. Arching forward against the pressure of Crowley’s heel, Aziraphale reaches out to touch him. “Please…”

Crowley laughs at him, quietly and darkly and Aziraphale’s head swims. Lifting his foot, he hooks it over Aziraphale’s shoulder instead, and he smiles benevolently down at him. 

That’s all the permission that Aziraphale requires. Turning his head, he kisses a path up Crowley’s calf, navigating around the overdone lacing of his shoes, over ankle and knee, then mouthing indulgently around the edge of the garter once he gets high enough. His hand follows with him, the tips of his fingers stroking the softer underside of his skin, lingering on the inside of his knee. Crowley sighs, shaky and oh so pretty, and Aziraphale’s chest pounds, fit to burst. 

“Crowley,” he mumbles into his thigh between slow, reverent kisses. “Crowley…” 

Hissing out his next exhale, Crowley shuffles forward, inching a little closer to the edge of the mattress. He squirms a little, just enough to adjust the current condition of his dress, giving Aziraphale more room to work with. Aziraphale takes the invitation all too eagerly, pushing Crowley’s thighs open just a little wider, straining against where the dress wants to keep him neatly cinched. 

Bowing his head, Aziraphale lets his mouth rest up between his legs to lick at him through the thin barrier of his underwear. Breath stuttering, Crowley moans, and Aziraphale hums happily, turning the black material even darker as he outlines the shape of his cock with his tongue. 

Really, it would be easier to remove the article altogether, but he’s actually quite fond of how it looks to have Crowley’s cock pushing against tight silk. So, he settles for something else instead. Lifting his hand, he gives the smooth plane of Crowley’s chest a gentle nudge, and Crowley takes the urging easily, lounging back against the mattress. The angle works better, allowing Aziraphale to urge his hips up -- and Crowley more than happily goes along, hooking his legs over Aziraphale’s shoulders to keep him close. 

Taking in a heady breath, Aziraphale strokes him through his underwear, giving no indication that he’s keen to remove them. Looping fingers to pull the material aside instead, Aziraphale ducks his head lower to open him up with his tongue. 

“Ah--” Crowley gasps, surprisingly soft, and his hands bury into Aziraphale’s hair. He can feel the scrape of his nails, sharper than they’ve been before, grazing over his scalp, and Aziraphale’s eyes flutter closed. “_ Angel _.”

Crowley says that, and Aziraphale is achingly hard all at once. Moaning against his skin, Aziraphale lifts one hand grip at Crowley’s thigh, and hums when Crowley shudders. Starting in full, slow strokes of his tongue, Aziraphale works against that instinctive tension under his mouth. His appetite, notorious as it is, is no less enthusiastic here, especially when Crowley makes such sweet sounds in response.

“Shit,” Crowley utters, digging his heels into Aziraphale’s shoulder blades. He pulls on Aziraphale’s hair, just an edge too hard, but all the sharp prickle of pain does is encourage Aziraphale further. “_ Shit _.” 

There’s only so much technique that can really be done like this. Honestly, the longer Aziraphale lingers against him, the more he realizes that an absence of any refinement is probably the far more appealing option. He nuzzles brazenly into Crowley’s warmth, getting him as wet as possible with shameless, sloppy sweeps of his mouth, and Crowley laughs with some delirious pleasure.

Even without being able to look at Crowley, knowing how much he’s enjoying this has its own entirely separate appeal. His laugh is a soft, shaky sound that gets under Aziraphale’s skin. While the ache building between his own thighs argues otherwise, something in the forefront of his mind insists that he could do this forever: licking Crowley open and making him shake, hearing him sigh. 

Crowley, however, seems to have a limit. “Ah,” Crowley manages, and he lets go of Aziraphale’s hair to tug firmly on his jacket instead. “Come here, angel, come here…” 

Aziraphale obliges, climbing up onto the bed and between his legs -- honestly, any request that Crowley deems to make in this given place and time is likely to be answered without even a second thought, given the state Aziraphale’s in. For now, Crowley seems content just to look at him, framing his face in his hands, and it gives Aziraphale the chance to look at Crowley too. 

Again, Aziraphale is struck by how beautiful he -- _ she _ looks like this. He makes the amendment absently, his heart pounding against his ribs. She’s beautiful, with her face flushed, dark lips parted for shallow breaths and all that wild hair splayed out against the sheets of the bed they’ve shared for months and months now. 

“You’re a glutton,” Crowley chastises lowly, and the sound of it hits like a punch to Aziraphale’s chest. She traces one painted thumbnail around the damp edges of Aziraphale’s lower lip, and Aziraphale lets out a shuddering sigh. As if to prove her right, Aziraphale leans in, trying for a kiss, but her grip suddenly tightens to hold him back. “Are you really that insatiable?” 

There’s an honest answer, though Aziraphale blushes to even admit it in his own head. It’s so easy to tease Crowley about his better nature: it’s touching for a demon to have a heart; it’s much more embarrassing for an angel to be hedonistic. Can he really help himself?

“Yes,” he confesses breathlessly, and Crowley’s slitted eyes widen as her smile spreads.

“Well, that’s a sin -- but I don’t need to tell you that,” she continues, pushing her thumb into Aziraphale’s mouth. He moans, just a little, his tongue tracing the underside, and Crowley sighs. “Several sins, actually. Gluttony; one. Lust; two. Probably greed. You’re being very greedy.” As she talks, she moves her thumb in Aziraphale’s mouth, pushing steadily in and out, and Aziraphale’s jaw slackens as his mind goes fuzzy. “Funny, how they separated out greed and gluttony. Kind of hand-in-hand, don’t you think?” 

Twisting his head free, Aziraphale lets out a shuddering breath, gently clasping Crowley’s wrist so she doesn’t just muffle him again. “Please let me kiss you, Crowley,” he asks, very sweetly and also very desperately, and she taps her thumb on his lower lip thoughtfully. For too long, he thinks she’s tormenting him again, but her reply is almost sheepish.

“My makeup,” she points out, delicately touching the perfect edge of her lipstick. “Just got it right.” 

Oh, for-- for _ someone’s _ sakes--

Aziraphale scowls. Speaking of sins. “Vanity, dear,” he chides. 

“Oh, are we keeping score?” she asks, her hands moving to the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt. “Because the literal demon in your bed is still winning one to three.” 

“Our bed,” Aziraphale corrects mildly, helping the matter along by tending to his belt with unsteady hands. “Also, darling, I don’t believe you can accuse me of lust without accounting for your half of it as well.” 

“I just wanted dinner,” Crowley insists innocently, exposing Aziraphale’s chest beneath the layers of his clothes and lightly dragging her nails down his skin, “you came in determined to ravish me.” 

Swallowing thickly, Aziraphale leans in. Both hands brace on Crowley’s hips, urging her down so she’s lined up neatly into his lap. Bowing over her, Aziraphale places a very soft, deliberate kiss to Crowley’s brow. 

“Is that what you’d like for me to do?” he asks, more quietly now, and desperately sincere. 

Crowley looks at the same time embarrassed by him and helplessly fond of him. “You’re _ sss_tupid,” she says, but her legs wrap around Aziraphale’s waist nonetheless. 

Aziraphale laughs, just a little, and his hands hitch her dress up, keeping her underwear nudged aside, before lining himself up with one hand. His other securely finds her hip, thumb tracing over jutting bone hidden beneath the dark material of her dress. 

“Deep breath, dearest.” 

Aziraphale pushes forward, pressing up inside the familiar, tight heat of her, and Crowley’s back twists up off the mattress in an impressive arch, mouth hanging open wide in a soundless cry. Aziraphale makes enough noise for them both, shuddering out a weak groan as he comes forward until their hips meet. He starts in a slow, sure rhythm that steadily picks up pace, deepening as she opens up underneath his every thrust. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he utters thickly, his hands moving to slide down her thigh, feeling warm skin, the smoothness of the tights and the indulgent tension where the garter sits. Then he raises his hand, and with just the barest hesitation, he lets himself do it: lets himself bury his fingers into Crowley’s long, coppery hair and curl. 

Warm, impossibly so, which may mean he’s imagining things, but he’s just as susceptible. Emboldened by the way Crowley sighs, he tugs, just a little, just enough to pull her head back, her neck a long, elegant arc for him to set himself upon with tongue and teeth. 

Hissing out another exhale, Crowley tightens every single limb around him, pulling Aziraphale even closer as she grinds back down into his lap. It’s dizzying, feeling Crowley underneath him, no matter how many times they end up together like this, and Aziraphale hasn’t yet lost the novelty. In fact, it seems the opposite: the more they’re together, the more little details stick out to him which make him want Crowley more and more. 

There’s the way Crowley’s back arches, or how breath catches in her throat, or how her hands always flutter uselessly before finally finding some solid part of Aziraphale to grip onto. Tonight, she settles on dragging her hands lower and lower, until she’s pressing against the seat of his pants. 

“Harder,” Crowley encourages hoarsely, squeezing down, and Aziraphale’s head swims. 

_ Lord_.

Aziraphale does exactly what she says, not just with his hips, but with his hands. He tightens his grip on her hair, pulling firmly to one side, and Crowley laughs and moans in the same breath. Each movement of Aziraphale’s hips makes Crowley jolt pleasantly underneath him, straps of her dress falling off her shoulders, her hair bouncing at her cheek. The dress creeps lower, exposing more and more of her chest as she writhes against the sheets, and Aziraphale’s free hand immediately explores what’s offered to him. Crowley moans, lips grinning and eyes rolled back, and Aziraphale can’t help himself.

Squeezing tight on Crowley’s hair, Aziraphale leans in and kisses her: sloppy and deep and enthusiastic. Crowley makes a muffled huff of a noise, even as she returns the gesture, as if she can’t decide how offended she should be. 

“My lipssstick,” comes in a hissed murmur against Aziraphale’s mouth. 

“Still lovely,” Aziraphale insists, on some mindlessly, adoring instinct that’s taken over his every thought. It’s true: even as he’s left the makeup smeared, hair a mess, and dress askew… Crowley looks achingly, painfully beautiful. 

“Lovely,” he repeats, heady and wanton as he kisses down Crowley’s neck. “Oh, darling, you’re beautiful--”

“Ah,” Crowley utters, one hand leaving its tight grip on Aziraphale to reach between them instead, shoving under the layers of her dress and underwear to wrap around her cock and squeeze. Digging her heels into the small of his back, she rides back shamelessly on his cock and sighs unsteadily. “Again, angel. _ Aziraphale _.” 

Moaning shakily in the back of his throat, Aziraphale pushes forward. “Beautiful,” he praises, speaking the words directly into Crowley’s gasping mouth. “Please. Crowley, you’re beautiful--” 

Crowley cries out when she comes, pulling Aziraphale tight to her chest and shuddering up against him. Her hair falls in waves around Aziraphale’s face, shining rust-red and overwhelmingly soft. She smells rich and faintly spicy, and some delirious part of Aziraphale wonders if it’s a new perfume as well, or if it’s the hairspray. He can’t focus long enough to ask: Crowley is clenched tight around him, her orgasm a warm, damp spot on his shirt from how closely they’re pressed together. 

Suddenly, Aziraphale feels so _ terribly _desperate.

“Crowley,” he breathes, pushing her hair back from her face with both hands. Her makeup really is ruined now -- lipstick smeared down her chin, mascara beginning to smudge along the bottom of her lashes. When she opens her eyes to look at him they _ shine _, though, and she smiles with her teeth as she tries to catch her breath. 

“Maybe not so greedy after all,” Crowley laughs, letting her legs drop exhaustedly from where they were locked around Aziraphale’s waist. She presses one hand against his hip, urging him back. “Come on, angel,” she says, leaning back on the mattress languorously. “You’ve been looking all night. Let me watch _ you _ for a change, yeah?”

Aziraphale makes a strangled noise, somewhere between embarrassment and utter, delirious intoxication. He can’t think to deny her like this, and he carefully withdraws, pressing his forehead to hers in silent apology when she hisses at the sensation. 

Unsteady even on his knees, Aziraphale shuffles backwards, trying to give Crowley the view she’s so politely asked for. Flushed and languid, Crowley smirks up at him. Clearly not satisfied with his position, she raises one heel to push on his chest once more, urging him to lean back for a better look.

“Don’t be s_ss_hy, angel,” Crowley coaxes, the hissing deliberate now rather than a passionate slip. “You look lovely too.” 

A sharp, heady rush of shame curls pleasantly in with his pleasure as Aziraphale wraps his hand around himself and strokes. He bows his head, cheeks very red, and his hips stutter as he thrusts up into his own fist. Moaning, his free hand grasps at her ankle as he twists his head to kiss her calf. 

“There you go,” she encourages, and Aziraphale shudders wildly above her.

When he finds the nerve to look at her again, his breath catches. She’s so, so beautiful, staring up at him like he’s the greatest thing she’s ever seen, and Aziraphale has no idea what to do with something like that -- except hold it close and do everything he can to keep it safe. 

“Crowley,” he moans, sounding like a plea, though he isn’t sure what for. She obliges him all the same, leaning forward and closing her hand over his to urge him just a bit harder, just a bit _ slower _ , and then he can’t endure. “Oh, _ please _, Crowley…”

“Yeah,” Crowley purrs, hissing through her teeth, “show me…” 

Aziraphale cries out, drawn out and desperate, and he loses himself. His hips jerk shamelessly when he comes, spilling out over her as heat floods through him, his pulse pounding in his ears. Crowley moans too, softly and approving as she strokes him through his orgasm, and her hands linger teasingly on his cock even after he’s spent. It takes an embarrassing whimper to convince her to stop, and Crowley laughs as she obliges. Trembling, Aziraphale barely manages to open his eyes to look at her, and it’s only when he catches his breath that the realization hits. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale utters weakly, “oh, Crowley, your dress…”

The corner of Crowley’s lips curve slightly as she reaches down, touching the damp mess Aziraphale has made of her dress with her fingertips. Even though Aziraphale can predict what comes next, he still whines a little in the back of his throat when Crowley raises her hand to her mouth and licks them clean. 

“Guess we are tied three for three,” Crowley notes, her notorious tongue moving in a long, lascivious slide between her fingers. “I can be a glutton too.” 

“Oh -- good Lord,” Aziraphale manages uselessly, before he just descends on her again, burying his face in her hair as Crowley laughs at him. 

\--

Crowley loves to sleep. Aziraphale had known, of course, that sleep was one of those little things that Crowley indulged more than he did, but since living here together, the sheer regularity of the habit has really made itself apparent. It’s charming really -- Crowley sleeps through the night and sometimes won’t rise until mid morning.

It’s starting to rub off on Aziraphale, too, but he still can’t help being up with the sun. 

“Good morning, darling.”

She barely stirs, even when Aziraphale settles himself down against the mattress again. He sets two mugs down on the nightstand, tea for himself, coffee for Crowley, and that seems to be the deciding factor -- from under a bramble of red hair, Crowley’s face appears.

“Coffee?” Crowley queries hoarsely, pushing herself up by the elbows and peering around for it. There’s a smattering of freckles across her shoulder. Aziraphale admires them as Crowley squirms over him, long arms grasping for the mug. 

When she finally settles, fingers wrapped covetously around porcelain, Aziraphale leans over to press a kiss to her temple. Tenderness swells in his chest, and he wants to say something -- that he’s grateful, maybe, for being allowed everything that she gives him. It’s thick on his tongue, but he can’t quite find the words for it. 

Then, coffee settling in her belly, Crowley speaks first anyways:

“So much for dinner, then,” she muses, huffing out a sharp sort of laugh, and Aziraphale’s cheeks flush. The gold of her eyes glints brightly over the rim of her coffee mug. “Got your appetite sated regardless, at least.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chides mildly, shuffling where he sits, and he clears his throat as he brightens up. “I still would very much like to have dinner. We could try again tonight?”

“Oh?” Crowley asks, arching a brow. “And what will I wear?” 

Oh dear. Aziraphale’s chest twists with shame and a lingering pang of lust. “Well! We could do that too!” he offers merrily. “Yes. We could go out and find you something new to wear -- I could help you! Wouldn’t that be nice? Then we can have dinner.” 

It does, in fact, sound very, very nice to go clothes shopping with Crowley. To watch her change in and out of whatever catches her eye, presenting each new ensemble for Aziraphale’s (very lenient, in all honesty) scrutiny. Aziraphale’s heart skips a beat just thinking of it… and Crowley can probably tell, given how she’s staring at him. 

Crowley fixes him with a look, loudly sipping from her coffee mug. “You mean to tell me,” she says, very patiently and very amused. “That I’ll manage to spend a day out with you, have you pick out an outfit yourself, and then expect to leave the house unmolested?” 

“Molested!” Aziraphale repeats, offended, and he stammers a little when he has to concede her point. “W-well. Perhaps if we pick an outfit that’s a little more modest.”

“Oh, no,” Crowley starts, her voice turning towards a snarl. “Not _ modest _ . Modest is the reason I’ve been wearing trousers for over a century. Modest means _ Victorian _ \-- that awful stuff. What a terrible part of history.” She waves with her free hand, indicating in a wide circle around her middle. “Great -- honking waist out to here. Frills everywhere. No freedom of movement whatsoever. Hardly lends itself to lurking! No. Absolutely not.”

Aziraphale almost objects. Mostly because he’s certainly not trying to throw Crowley back to the 1800s and cover her ankles, but the truth of the matter is… well. Aziraphale is dreadfully susceptible all around, and Crowley could probably wear the most heinous thing imaginable and he’d still have a hard time keeping his hands off. 

“You know at some point we’re going to have to leave the house, right?” she asks over the rim of her mug, and Aziraphale’s blush spreads to his ears. 

“I’m not _ that _ insatiable,” he argues, but she looks unconvinced. She takes another slurp, then sets the mug aside, shuffling down under the quilt until she can rest her head in Aziraphale’s lap. 

It’s not lustful so much as fond when Aziraphale touches her hair again, brushing away a ragged curl. His thumb traces the dip of Crowley’s temple, then the soft line of her brow, before settling finally at her shoulder while he leans back against the headboard to sip his tea. They stay like that for a moment, comfortable and warm, as the light of the sun drifts in through the bedroom window.

“I hope this doesn’t mean you’ll start getting any wild expectations,” Crowley utters lazily, turning her cheek against Aziraphale’s lap. “I’m bound to cut it off again eventually when I feel like a change -- same goes for all of it. I’m not likely to settle into anything for the next century just because some angel called me pretty.”

Aziraphale laughs. Of all the ways he’s seen Crowley over the years, he’s not sure he’d be able to pick a favourite. The versions have always been right in their own way, and the familiarity persists far beyond anything Crowley could wear.

“No, dear,” Aziraphale answers kindly. “Where would be the fun in that?”


End file.
